


let it grow

by taywen



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, M/M, Pre-Canon, Uprooted Week 2017, yes this is as ridiculous and sappy as it sounds and I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-16 18:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12348021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: Marek receives an extravagant bouquet from a secret admirer. He takes that about as well as you might expect.





	let it grow

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 2 of Uprooted Week 2017 - flowers
> 
> title from John Lennon's "Mind Games" - the full lyric would be "love is a flower you got to let it grow"

Breakfast with his family was a quiet affair. It happened but a few times a week, as the duties of the royal family often took precedence and prevented one or more of them from attending. Left to his own devices, Marek would gladly have remained abed and sent for a tray rather than dragged himself to the private dining room to engage in stilted conversation, but a few months earlier his father had hinted that Marek’s presence every so often would be appreciated, so Marek grudgingly roused himself at a respectable hour once a week to attend.

Midway through the meal, the door opened to admit a servant bearing a plain vase brimming with flowers. It was likely for Malgorzhata, though the arrangement seemed more extravagant than usual for his brother— not that Marek particularly cared about the state of Sigmund’s marriage. Uninterested in witnessing Malgorzhata’s reaction to the gift, he turned his attention back to his meal: breaking his fast with his family was tedious enough normally, and if Solya hadn’t been away doing whatever it was he did at his family’s barony, Marek likely wouldn’t have even been present.

“Pardon me, Your Highness,” the servant said, managing to bow without upsetting the entire ridiculous bouquet. “These flowers arrived for you this morning.”

“Pretty, Uncle Marek!” Marisha’s bright voice broke the silence that had descended upon the table.

His niece was smiling at him, but her parents’ reactions were more reserved. Were they amused, and was that amusement at Marek’s expense? Who the hell would have the temerity to send Marek flowers, in any case?

Marek gritted his teeth and turned back to the servant, but his eyes caught on the riot of colours. He could recognize the roses, of course, and the rest looked familiar, though he couldn’t put a name to them at that moment.

“Put it in my chambers,” Marek said shortly.

“I hope,” the king said mildly, once the flowers were gone, “that you have not been indiscreet.”

“Come now, Father.” Sigmund spoke before Marek could, his voice trembling with restrained laughter. “I believe I saw a red rose in amongst them; Marek’s secret admirer must be in love.”

Marek eyed him narrowly; had his children not been present, Marek would have let Sigmund know exactly what he thought of that.

“ _I_ saw white lilies!” Marisha was nearly bouncing in her seat. “That means purity, Uncle Marek. My tutor said so.”

“Is that so?” Marek managed not to snap the words, somehow; he even dredged up some feigned interest. _Purity_. Whoever had sent those flowers had better not reveal themselves to him any time soon; or ever, if they intended to live.

Marisha nodded earnestly. “My tutor has a book about all kinds of flowers. You should check what the other ones mean.”

“Perhaps I will.” Marek had no intention of doing so.

“Darling, finish your breakfast,” Malgorzhata murmured, but when she met his gaze across the table, she looked— considering.

Marek couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse than his brother’s poorly-hidden amusement.

* * *

So intent was Marek upon stewing in his own irritation that he somehow managed to forget what had caused the entire humiliating situation in the first place. When he entered his chambers and saw the flowers in pride of place on the table, his anger only resurged. He ducked back into the hall, catching the eye of a passing guard, and ordered him to send for a maid.

That done, Marek closed the door with restrained violence and stalked over to the arrangement. His intent was to rid himself of the blooms immediately, by dashing them against the wall or the floor; the maid would have to clean it up, and she’d tell the other servants about it. The destruction of the damn flowers would get back to his “admirer” eventually, as clear a message as the flowers were not— but he found himself studying the blooms in more detail instead.

As his brother had said, there was a red rose at the centre of the bouquet, alongside two other roses: one a white nearly invisible against the other pale blooms, and the other a light violet. Solya would probably call it lavender; he’d have laughed had he seen the flowers arrive— at least until the servant left. Then his sharp eyes would have discerned the identity of whichever noblewoman had dared send it in a matter of moments, deciphering the message hidden in the flowers as easily as his silver tongue uttered his beautiful, deadly spells. If the sender proved wanting - and Marek had no doubt that she would; there was little to be gained from a marriage now, before he was crowned - then Solya would promptly set to plotting the social demise of the presumptuous woman.

But Solya wasn’t here, and Marek’s only knowledge of the so-called language of flowers was that a red rose meant love. Did the white rose have a different meaning than the lilies that Marisha had mentioned? White as a stand-in for purity made sense, although why his “admirer” had seen fit to include so many white blooms - there was a number of other white flowers mixed in with the lilies, three separate varieties of white flowers was surely too many - was a mystery. Purity was hardly a concept that Marek would apply to himself. And what did the violet rose mean?

Blue and yellow shades of yet another flower that Marek recognized but could not reliably name mingled at the edge of the profusion of white that surrounded the roses, bordered all around by numerous leafy stalks; ferns, perhaps. If there was some kind of message hidden amongst the petals, Marek had no way of translating it.

The vase in which the bouquet had arrived was another essential clue to the sender’s identity, if only Marek knew what to make of it. Crafted from pale porcelain, the outside was plain and unmarked, but the scalloped lip of the vase was edged in glistening gold. A rich gift to send along with a few handfuls of flowers that would wilt within the week.

Marek stared at the red rose. Its violet counterpart was pale enough that it was nearly lost amongst the blossoms that surrounded it, but the red rose stood out against all that white, a drop of blood in fresh snow.

Unbidden, a memory unfurled in his mind, the image hazy but the remembered sensations of a soft voice and gentle hands viscerally present.

“A single red rose signifies true love, Marechek,” Mother had murmured to him one morning, twenty years past at least.

Had she knelt beside him in the grass, or had they been sitting together on the bench? All Marek could recall was his mother’s hands curled around his own as he carefully held the rose she had clipped for him.

“Does a nettle mean you want to duel?” Marek had asked, his hands still stinging from his enthusiastic removal of the unwanted plant a few moments earlier.

Mother had laughed, delighted. “I suppose it could, but a nettle is hardly suitable as a courting gift.”

“Do all the flowers in your garden mean something?”

Marek could no longer recall all the myriad plants that his mother had cultivated; her garden was overgrown now, choked with weeds and forgotten.

“They do,” Mother had agreed warmly.

“That’s a lot of flowers,” Marek had said doubtfully. His only interest in the colourful blossoms was directly related to their importance to Mother; he had no particular fondness for them in their own right, no patience for clipping dead leaves or trimming the bushes into pleasing shapes.

“Fret not, Marechek.” Mother’s smile had been obvious in her voice. “If and when you court someone, I will gladly help you choose suitable flowers to give her.”

A timid knock on the door interrupted Marek’s remembrance. His hand tightened around the stem of the red rose, a thorn biting into the flesh of one finger. Swallowing a curse, he stuffed the flower he did not recall picking up back into the arrangement, then called sharply for the maid to enter.

The cut was not deep, little more than a prick, but blood welled up from the wound all the same. Marek blinked rapidly; ridiculous, to have such a reaction to so minor a pain.

“Put that somewhere safe,” he ordered roughly, gesturing at the arrangement with his uninjured hand, and stalked out of the room without waiting for a reply.

Queen Hanna was beyond his reach - for now - and Solya had said he would return sometime next week; the flowers could very well be wilted by then. Marek had no interest in asking his sister-in-law or Marisha to translate the meaning of the bouquet either, so he would have to find a book like the one Marisha had mentioned if he wanted to find out what the flowers meant.

* * *

Impossibly, Solya was standing before the window, his bleached-pale hair fairly gleaming in the sunlight, when Marek finally returned to his room with the damn book. A smile was already playing across his face as he turned, sharp eyes traveling hungrily over Marek’s form. Marek could hardly fault him for it; he was doing the same, checking for any signs of something amiss. Solya could take care of himself, and a visit to his family’s seat of power was hardly a battlefield, but seeing Solya resplendent - as always - in one of his rich wizard’s robes settled the formless unease that had plagued Marek since the wizard’s departure.

“When did you return?” Marek asked, kicking the door shut behind himself.

Solya made a show of checking the clock. “Perhaps half an hour ago.” Long enough to change out of his dusty riding clothes, but not much else.

“You made good time.”

Solya inclined his head, then raised an eyebrow. “‘The Language of Flora Faire and Foul,’” he read in a slow drawl, spotting the book that Marek had forgotten he yet carried. “How unexpected,” he added, though it sounded anything but; Solya’s smile widened, almost taunting, as Marek drew nearer. “You never cease to surprise me, Your Highness—”

Marek tossed the book aside, careless of where it landed, and grabbed a handful of Solya’s fine robe, dragging him close.

“I should have known,” Marek growled.

Solya widened his eyes - _not him, surely_ \- but he was far too amused to properly feign innocence. “Known what, Your Highness?”

“You sent me the damn flowers.”

Solya’s smile shifted into something more genuine, a smirk that Marek saw only when they were alone, but all he said was, “Flowers?”

Marek closed the scant inches between them, smothering the laughter rising in Solya’s chest. He could still feel Solya’s smirk against his mouth; Marek bit him, incensed, and pressed inside when Solya’s lips parted on a gasp.

At Solya’s behest, they usually did this in his chambers; he’d made some argument about Marek’s father not turning a blind eye if they carried on in the royal wing, though as far as Marek was concerned, everyone likely already knew anyway. Solya’s maid had walked in on them once or twice, she must have told someone about it, and from there— But Solya had been unusually insistent, and it wasn’t as if his rooms were uncomfortable, so Marek had conceded.

Solya made no protest now as Marek guided him deeper into his suite, his clever fingers tugging at the fastenings of Marek’s clothes. When they reached the bedchamber, Solya stepped away but he made no move to continue stripping off his clothes. Marek half-expected him to insist they retire to Solya’s rooms instead, but all he said was, “You put my flowers next to your bed?”

Marek glanced over his shoulder: the vase did indeed sit on the short table beside his bed. “They— smell pleasant enough,” Marek muttered, crossing his arms. Damn that maid for putting them _there_.

Solya hummed agreeably, but Marek knew him well enough to know he was _amused_ , a fact proven when Marek pushed him down onto the bed and Solya only laughed.

He stopped laughing when Marek remained where he was, shrugging out of his open shirt and pausing with his hands poised on his belt buckle.

“Perhaps we should move this to your rooms,” Marek said.

Solya’s dark eyes darted from Marek’s hands to his face. “That would allow certain pretenses to remain intact, but your condition looks rather pressing,” he said in an admirable semblance of his usual smooth tone; the way he couldn’t keep his eyes from trailing down Marek’s body belied his words almost as thoroughly as the bulge at the front of his hose.

“Pretenses?” Marek demanded, pulling his belt open with swift, jerky movements. “Those ridiculous flowers arrived in the middle of breakfast with my _family_.”

“Oh? How unfortunate.” Solya sounded not the least bit repentant, but the speed with which he had resumed disrobing was gratifying, at least.

Marek snarled under his breath as he joined Solya on the bed, crowding between his thighs. Solya spread his legs quickly enough, but Marek pressed him open wider with one hand just to watch Solya arch. He stopped there, reminded once more that they always coupled in Solya’s room, and as a result—

“The oil—”

Solya was already shaking his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

Marek’s mind went blank at the thought, but Solya’s smug look was enough to spur him into action. “Too eager to wait for me to open you up?” he demanded roughly.

Solya’s expression didn’t change, but there was no mistaking the way he shuddered beneath Marek. “I thought only to spare you the inconvenience—” He broke off when Marek pressed the tip of a finger against him, smearing the excess oil around.

“How considerate.” Marek began to press his finger _in_ , breaching Solya more easily than he would have expected; he drew back when Solya groaned and tried to shove down upon him.

“ _Marek_.” Solya’s voice was creeping up into a whine; Marek usually had to really apply himself for Solya’s self-control to loosen even that much, but he already seemed quite worked up. His arousal was flushed dark with blood, fluid already leaking from the tip.

Solya had been hard as soon as Marek kissed him, but Marek had begun to stiffen as soon as he saw Solya in his rooms, so Marek had thought little of it; but perhaps Solya had already been aroused before Marek even returned.

Marek pushed two fingers in at once with little resistance, grinning when Solya arched and cried out. Solya had been thorough - Marek would expect no less - and he took a third with minimal resistance in a matter of moments.

“Did you leave yourself in this state the entire morning?” Marek asked, working his fingers leisurely into Solya’s welcoming body.

“Yes,” Solya gasped, rocking back against his hand. “Ah—”

Marek curled his fingers, pressing against the place inside him that drove Solya wild, and was not disappointed: Solya’s back nearly came off the bed, more clear liquid spilling from the tip of his arousal. Marek hitched one of his legs over a shoulder, leaning forward to keep Solya down as he continued to torment him.

“You’re beautiful like this.” The words escaped him of their own volition, but they were true. Solya did not blush easily, and the only time Marek ever saw him so flushed was when they were alone. Laid out like this on Marek’s bed, his pale hair in disarray, eyes more pupil than iris though he was not in the midst of working some spell or other; it was all because of Marek.

Solya raised his head, treating Marek to an outraged look. “My appearance is always stunning.”

Marek choked back a laugh. “Of course.” Then he applied his thumb to the sensitive stretch of skin behind Solya’s balls, and Solya slumped back against the bed.

“Marek, I’m—” Solya broke off with a moan, shaking beneath him. His arousal leaked steadily; Marek’s own neglected prick ached in sympathy, but neither of them seemed inclined to do much about it. Solya had his fists clenched in the bedclothes, and Marek was too occupied in pressing him to his limits.

On that note— “Do you suppose you could come from this alone?” The musing tone Marek had aimed for was ruined by the strain in his voice and the shortness of his breath, but it did not seem to matter.

Solya keened, his eyes clenched shut. “I could,” he gasped. “I could but— I want you in me, Marek, _please_ —”

“Was asking so difficult?” Marek murmured, pulling his fingers free. Solya whined wordlessly, his hips rocking against the air, but he still made no move to touch himself. Marek pressed his face against Solya’s thigh, muffling his own moans as he slicked himself up with the oil clinging to his fingers.

There was no stifling the cry Solya made as Marek pushed inside, Solya pressing back to take him in. Marek stopped when he was fully sheathed, panting. It had been over a month since they’d last done this. Marek could have found a willing maid easily enough, or a suitable noblewoman who wouldn’t expect anything else to come of their relations with a bit more trouble, but the prospect of facing the king’s pointed comments about Marek’s _indiscretions_ had seemed too tedious a trade off.

“Marek,” Solya said again in that same needy tone, his face flushed a lovely shade of red when Marek opened his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. Solya was shifting restlessly beneath Marek, pinned too thoroughly by his leg over Marek’s shoulder and the hands clasped around his hips to have any sort of leverage.

“You missed me.” Marek drew back, then pressed in once more, hard enough to push Solya up the bed.

“ _Yes_.” Solya lifted a hand, bracing himself against the headboard as Marek rutted into him. “Had to—” He broke off, turning his head so his face was partially hidden by his outstretched arm.

“Had to what?” Marek halted, tightening his grip around Solya’s hips when he tried to rock back.

Somehow, Solya managed to glare with only one eye. “Had to listen to my grand-niece go on about how handsome and strong _Prince Marek_ was.”

“Is,” Marek corrected, grinning. Then, “I thought she was, what, eleven?”

“Fifteen. Don’t you dare get any ideas,” he added, turning to fix Marek with the full force of his foreboding glare. The way his eyelids fluttered when Marek began to move again took most of the threat out of it.

“But if I were to marry her, your line would be tied to mine,” Marek said a few moments later, hardly aware of the words coming out of his mouth. Solya felt so good around him.

Solya shuddered at that. “You can’t _say_ —” he gasped, his head pressing back against the pillow so the tendons in his neck stood out in sharp relief. “A— A minor barony— You couldn’t possibly.”

Marek grunted, uninterested in arguing the point just then. He pulled back for a moment, relishing Solya’s whine of protest, to let Solya’s leg down before surging back in. He swallowed Solya’s cry in a kiss, little more than artless presses of their panting mouths. Solya’s free hand curled around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as they moved together.

“Please,” Solya begged an indeterminate amount of time later, turning his head aside to speak.

Marek dragged his mouth along the line of Solya’s jaw, nipping briefly at the soft flesh below. “Anything.”

Solya’s grip around his neck tightened at that, his blunt nails digging into the skin there; Marek bit him more sharply in retaliation. “Please— Let me—” He rocked up, his arousal rubbing against Marek.

Marek shivered all over, bracing his weight on one hand so he could get the other between them even as he kept thrusting into Solya. At the first brush of Marek’s fingers, Solya tensed up; a few strokes was all it took, Solya spilling hot and wet all over himself and Marek. He bit Marek’s shoulder to muffle his shout; the bright spark of pain, coupled with Solya tightening around him, was enough to send Marek over the edge as well.

Solya grunted as Marek’s weight settled fully upon him, but made no move to dislodge him; that was as good as permission for him to stay where he was. Marek dozed, despite the light shining through the curtains, until Solya roused enough to rasp a cleaning spell. The cool sensation sweeping across his skin startled Marek into alertness, and after Solya pointedly prodded a sharp elbow into his side Marek rolled onto his back next to him.

“Why did your arrangement include so many white flowers,” Marek muttered, still close enough to sleep that he could voice the question without hesitation.

“Your Highness is the very epitome of innocence and purity—” Solya’s words choked off, his body shaking with mirth as Marek made an outraged sound.

But the implication of his words sank in a moment later. “So it was a joke,” Marek said in a reasonable imitation of his customary tone; all traces of drowsiness had fled.

“No.” Solya’s entire demeanour shifted at once; Marek could easily imagine the intent look in his eyes, though he kept his own gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Marek,” Solya said, pressing against him, his body all long, lean lines that Marek knew more intimately than any other person he had taken to bed. “It was not a joke.”

Marek grunted and turned on his side; a pyrrhic victory, as he found himself staring at the damn flowers even as he turned his back to Solya.

“White heather means protection, but it can also means the giver wants your wishes to come true,” Solya murmured a few moments later. He was close enough that Marek could feel the heat from his body, but not the press of his skin. “White lily typically means purity, but it also stands for majesty,” Solya added. “A white and red rose together mean war.”

Marek shivered but refused to turn back. “The violet rose?”

“Lavender,” Solya chided, fitting himself to Marek’s back, an arm curling around Marek’s front. “It means enchantment. The fern also means magic.”

“You would include references only to yourself in a message meant for me,” Marek muttered. He did not press back into Solya’s hold, but he made no move to escape it either.

“Naturally.” Solya pressed his lips to the back of Marek’s neck, then his teeth, but as soon as the sting came, he soothed it away with tongue. “Blue iris means ‘I stand beside you with my whole being’.”

“And the yellow?” Marek hardly recognized his own voice; product, surely, of Solya’s graceful fingers moving idly over his abdomen.

“I will always be happy to defend you.”

Marek had heard enough— more than enough. He turned, pinning Solya to the bed. The Falcon’s eyes were unbearably soft, but Marek didn’t have to focus on that if he leaned in to kiss him, so he did.

“Marek,” Solya said again, when he pulled back; just that, and nothing more.

“Put your hands on the headboard,” Marek ordered roughly; as soon as Solya obeyed, he applied himself to proving whether Solya could come from his fingers alone in truth.

* * *

Marek woke before Solya, oppressively warm and tacky with sweat— and other substances. The fault for those three grievances could all be laid at Solya’s feet, but the culprit himself slumbered on, stubbornly resistant to Marek’s attempts to free himself from the stifling tangle of his limbs.

Judging from the quality of the light coming through the window, it must have been late afternoon, if not early evening. They’d already missed dinner, and Marek was famished: all Solya’s fault. There had been a meeting with Janos sometime in there as well, and possibly with some member of the Magnati too; Solya would have to think up proper excuses for Marek’s absence.

By the time Solya woke perhaps a quarter of an hour later, Marek had progressed to glaring at the flowers before him.

“What time is it?” A yawn interrupted Solya’s question, then he unplastered himself from Marek’s back to sit up.

“Supper time?” Marek guessed, turning onto his back in time to enjoy the sight of Solya stretching. The exact moment that Solya noticed Marek’s gaze was obvious; he arched his back that much further, the corner of his mouth turning up smugly.

“Shall I send Lizbeta for a tray?” Solya drawled, then stiffened slightly when he recalled that they were in Marek’s chambers.

Marek grinned, but took pity on him and did not otherwise acknowledge the slip. Solya had been almost incoherent by the time Marek allowed him to spill the second time.

“There are two varieties of fern in my flowers,” Marek said instead, which had the fascinating and unintended effect of making Solya look even more hunted.

“One is the common variety,” Solya said slowly, his gaze fixed on the pillow behind Marek’s head rather than on Marek himself. “The other is quaintly referred to by the locals as maidenhair.”

“And its meaning—?”

Solya’s throat worked as he swallowed; the silence stretched out for several long moments.

“I can check the book,” Marek offered, pushing himself up. Solya would not have included the maidenhair had he not intended for Marek to know its significance, though he seemed unwilling to explain it now.

“No.” Solya turned to regard him properly. “You deserve to hear the words from me.”

Marek raised his eyebrows, torn between intrigue and worry. “In your own time,” he managed, aware of the beating of his heart but not entirely certain why it was pounding so hard.

Solya scowled at him, then looked away just as swiftly. But he was still watching Marek from the corner of his eye as he said, “Maidenhair signifies a secret bond of love.”

Marek stared, his breath caught in his throat as something in his chest began to ache.

Solya’s posture grew more tense with each moment, his shoulders drawing up defensively. Usually, Marek enjoyed watching Solya put on his masks and armour, but that artifice had no place in their bed.

“Solya.” His name tasted sharp and cool, like a fresh breeze in the shade; Marek said it sparingly, as it had the unfortunate effect of arousing him every time, associated as it was with their intimacy.

Solya shivered and turned his head up eagerly when Marek pressed him down onto the bed once more.

In the end, they shared a very late supper, but Marek could not find it in himself to regret it; quite the opposite.

* * *

It took Marek too long to convince the Splendid to fashion the ornaments he had in mind; usually, he would have had Solya approach the other wizard, but as Solya was the reason behind the endeavour, Marek preferred to go to the Splendid directly.

The working was apparently simple: the creation of the ornaments took less than an hour. Marek appreciated the speed, as it had taken him nearly twice as long to convince the Splendid to fashion them for him in the first place, mostly due to the fact that the wizard had seemed almost incensed by the relatively mundane request.

The only wizard that made any sense to Marek was Solya himself, and even then Marek could not properly predict Solya’s actions more than half of the time. It was for that reason that Marek dragged his feet now, though the Splendid’s workshop was not terribly far from Solya’s chambers: he did not know how his gift would be received.

Ideally, Solya would appreciate that Marek had found him a token that would endure, forged by magic. It contrasted the flowers - mortal, discarded last week - that Solya had procured in a way that Marek found pleasing. Of course, Solya could just as easily end up offended that Marek had gone to another wizard for help.

“I see Ragostok has released you from his clutches,” Solya said disdainfully when Marek reached his chambers. He was arranged in an artful lounge, the picture of careless disregard. “And what, may I inquire, was so pressing that Your Highness required the aid of the Splendid?”

Marek stifled his own annoyance, tempered by the knowledge that he would be similarly vexed had Solya carried out some task for Sigmund when the Sword or another court wizard could likely have accomplished the same.

“It seemed poor form to ask that you procure your own gift,” Marek said evenly, forcing himself to walk normally towards Solya; in truth, he wanted to turn and flee, but he was no coward.

Solya straightened from his slouch, his eyes glittering as they searched for some hint. “A gift? I am but a humble—” He grunted, startled, when Marek straddled his lap, but his hands steadied Marek automatically.

“I had to ask for a few others that I’ll give to my family,” Marek added. “So the Splendid and my father and the rest of the court will continue to turn us a _blind eye_.” He could not manage as scathing a tone as Solya, but judging by Solya’s slight smile, he'd conveyed his disdain for the concept competently enough.

“Perhaps you ought to dispense those first, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps I shall, Falcon,” Marek retorted, but Solya’s grip on his hips tightened when he made to rise.

“Must I ask for this as well? It seems truly poor form to mention a gift then wait for its intended to—” Solya fell silent, his eyes fixated on the deceptively delicate carnation Marek pulled out of his sleeve.

The flower looked like the real thing, from the green of the slender stem - slightly curved, for added realism - to the dark red of the carnation’s myriad petals. The illusion shattered when one picked it up, however; the Splendid had made it out of some material similar to glass that he’d claimed was of his own making and basically indestructible. Regardless of its precise composition, the ornament was far weightier than an actual carnation.

Solya took it carefully, his expression veiled as he turned the flower slowly in his long fingers.

“You did not, I trust, ask for this exact flower to give to the rest of your family,” Solya said at length, his cool tone at odds with his hand still cradling the ornament.

“Why? Is there some hidden meaning—” Marek caught himself when he saw how Solya’s face closed down further, his hands rising of their own accord to cup Solya’s around the flower. “Of course not, Solya. I read that damn book. I would have made you a red rose, but even I knew what it meant before all this, so—”

“Enough talking.” Solya shook Marek’s hands off and gently set the carnation aside.

“Enough—” Marek began, incensed: if either of them spoke too much, it was assuredly Solya. But before Marek could tell him as much, Solya curled his hand around the back of Marek’s neck and pulled him into a truly filthy kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> dark red carnations mean "hot love" or are a "symbol of burning love" and red carnations also mean "I love only you", according to [this](https://en.polishharmony.de/A-language-of-flowers-in-Poland) site on the language of flowers in Poland. the majority of the flower meanings have been taken from that site, with a few additional meanings from [here](http://thelanguageofflowers.com/)
> 
> I doubt all of these meanings (or even most of them, lol) would have been in use in Uprooted's time period but yolo


End file.
